51

THE LOVE OF THE PRIESTESS

This is Naglowska’s last major piece in her little newspaper. It appeared in the last issue, La Flèche No. 20, January 15, 1935. In its form, it is very reminiscent of Evola’s “Poem in Four Voices,” which Naglowska had translated from Italian into French for him in 1920 (it has survived only in her French translation). There is something very touching about this poem (not easily translated, because it is heavily dependent upon rhyme), especially when we take into account the circumstances of her life. She was ill and weakening, and in a little more than a year, she would be dead. In a way, it is her farewell to us.

A storm-blue island. A leaden sky. Slowly, the Priestess advances on the dry and hard path. Her mantle drags, lengthened, on the dusty pebbles, her harp sings strangely, grazed by the branches. Her voice, vague, murmurs this:

THE PRIESTESS. To me, so frail,

Why this heavy load?

The freezing night?

The glorious pretense?

My feet, so small,

Fear the hard hillocks.

I fear the sounds that grate

on this sinister wall.

Oh! Do not call me, ferocious Spirit!

And, from the shore, the crowd comes running happily:

CROWD. She is collapsing!”

“She is weeping, I believe!” “Who then says that it is a god who believes?”

Poetry, a vaporous shadow, extends her protecting arm. Drama, sumptuous, and Comedy, frivolous, place themselves to the right and left of the Priestess. Are they men or women? Useless question. Here is Genius, looking serious, detaching himself with authority from the mass of the excited clouds. Long, indecipherable sighs pass through the air.

POETRY. She has sung my songs.

COMEDY. She laughed my laughs.

DRAMA. On the trembling stage,
She knew how to speak my heart.

THE CROWD. And says nothing at home.

GENIUS. The crowd is vile.

Flee its evil eye.

When, servile,

It spews out its licking

And deceitful compliment,

May one purge the isle!

The humans fall to the rear, like a mooing herd. They say:

Humans. I think, brothers, that the genius, in the evening, with no mystery about it, like anyone, is going to see a gossip. (Coarse laughs.) And I say, certainly, that the priestess, acquiesces to nocturnal drunkenness—Quite simply!—And is restless afterward! Oh! Oh! If one only knew!—What then?—I’ll keep the secret.—But what is it that he knows?—Rumor had it one day. . . . But that was not at all for sure, and was even denied!—Flowers lose their smell, when the fruit is ripe.” (They go out.)

GENIUS. The faint-hearted have left these sacred spaces.

VOICES IN THE CLOUDS. The echo follows them still!

GENIUS. Sonorous voices awaken in the night and create. Priestess, arise!

THE PRIESTESS: Priestess, I was that. My songs are dead!

DRAMA. To this agreement I bring a broken heart.

POETRY. We shall make a hymn of it, do you want to? A proud hymn of passion vanquished.

THE PRIESTESS. I shall vanquish no more.

COMEDY. I surprised upon the sea.

A ravishing couple.

Any faithful landmark

Made the sport pleasant . . .

THE PRIESTESS. . . . in comedy!

GENIUS. Pity the holy woman.

Pity the bold flower.

Here to sound the scale

Of her hardened sorrows.

Talents, do you withdraw?

The Talents withdraw. Here are their reflections from the back of the scene:

POETRY. I told her

That I love the greenness

When pure waves

Smile from the seas,

The beautiful sun,

That does not see our tears,

Always seeming the same,

Bathing our cries of alarm

In warm rays.

DRAMA. But her?

POETRY. I saw nothing of her

But the drawing,

Adorned with pearls,

And with a fiery wake.^*34

They exit. Genius and the Priestess are alone. The night is very dark. At times the wind blows. The clouds regroup, taking laboriously human forms.

GENIUS. Look at you, without talents.

Woman! Only woman!

Sluggish and slow,

Your dreams take flight in the wind

Like smoke without flame.

VOICES IN THE SKY. Those were souls.

THE PRIESTESS. I am only a leaf that trembles,

A tear that hangs from a lash,

An ephemeral image that seems

Quite superb, but is only made of clay.

Still, I please myself that way!

THE VOICES. There are in the skies

Voices in mourning, That sorrowing

Do receive

This mystery

Of the heart that passes

And which grows weary

Of its happiness.

GENIUS. Tell me now of your sorrow.

THE PRIESTESS. No! It is not a sorrow!

THE VOICES. The hour is sounding!

After a moment the Talents come back. One can barely see them, but one guesses their inquietude:

THE TALENTS. What will she say?

THE VOICES Who then is afraid of the summoning chant?

POETRY. I take up my lyre.

COMEDY. And I take flight.

DRAMA. I shall stay, but I’ll be silent.

Lower the curtains of cloth.

The soul of Life now appears.

Kneeling, let us hear its strophes.

GENIUS. Speak!

Silence. The Priestess collects herself. A dream is kindled in her eyes. Her arms rise slowly, and her knees bend.

THE PRIESTESS, on her knees. When I am near Him,

He is so large and my eyes so small,

That I bend my head low,

He believes then that I do not love Him.

When I am alone in a field,

My soul rears up like a volcano,

My mad cries of love are carried off,

And only the echo speaks softly to me.

But, yesterday, He was in the court.

I had my harp and my most beautiful attire.

I broke strings and tore fine veils,

And madly I kissed his two hands.

HUMAN VOICES. Oh! Crime!

CELESTIAL VOICES. Oh! Dream!

GENIUS. The gods, respectful, arise.

THE PRIESTESS. And He, Superb, smiled!

THE CELESTIAL VOICES. Do you hear this immense cry?

OH! Poetry! What were you doing?

THE ECHO. For virtue . . . ?

THE HUMANS. No, for shame.

GENIUS. Silence! Glory!

THE PRIESTESS. And his bright smile pleases me.

A HUMAN VOICES. What did he say?

THE PRIESTESS. Oh! I don’t know!

They came and I wept,

With joy, perhaps . . .

THE HUMANS . Or with bitterness.

The crowd detaches itself cleanly against the gray-mauve backdrop. The mocking sneers are abject.

THE PRIESTESS. My soul smokes in a holocaust.

THE HUMANS. Will we see again Faust and Marguerite? And then, what follows!

The priestess remains silent. The indignation of the Talents is vibrant.

GENIUS. The crowd wants the rite

Of its mediocrity.

In its simplicity

Love is unusual

To its mentality.

Poetry advances, followed by Drama and Comedy. Placing one knee on the ground and presenting her lyre with a moving gesture, she says:

POETRY. Here are your words, projected

Upon my lyre.

A whole empire

Is in thee reflected.